


The Importance of Sound Proof

by headless_nic



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 17:03:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17288024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headless_nic/pseuds/headless_nic
Summary: Young Jack Sherman is arrested for having shot his English master after a heated argument in the school's music room. But something just does not seem to add up and Doctor Watson calls in Sherlock Holmes to re-evaluate the evidence. One-shot!





	The Importance of Sound Proof

**Author's Note:**

> Again, though no archive warning applies, and this has been rated as suitable for general audiences, please be aware that this is still a crime story about the murder of a person.  
> Nothing graphic, though.

The importance of sound proof

 

In my many years, working with Sherlock Holmes, there were many cases, that appeared as simple and clear as one could only imagine, when in fact, they were rather more complex and bewildering, than the ones, that appeared to be difficult at first. One incident, in particular, comes to mind, thus, which happened in the summer of 1889. I was just about to go on a short vacation, that I intended to spend fishing at Watchet in Somerset, and it was there, that the strange circumstances that prove the accuracy of my statement actually took place. 

After a trying few months during which I had been busy finding a suitable premise and slowly preparing my return into medical practice, so I would be able to provide for a wife and possibly a family, I had still managed to set aside enough money to afford a week out of town. And even though the little fishing town was by no means a fashionable holiday retreat, I had some connections there and was looking forward to its peace and quiet. At any rate, London at this time of year was hardly ever bearable and this one did not seem to be an exception. 

On the evening of my departure – I had just returned from a call to Miss Morstan to bid my temporary farewell - Holmes and I sat in our usual armchairs, the windows of our abode flung open in a feeble attempt to get in some fresh air. The reason for that measure was not solely founded in the sticky heat outside, that had the city in its tight grip, but also and foremost in a rather unpleasant chemical experiment, containing sulphur and potassium conducted by my companion earlier in the day that left the stench of rotten eggs lingering in the room. 

Holmes, sleeves still rolled up to his elbows, tie cast aside and waistcoat unbuttoned now sat smoking his pipe languidly, his eyes half closed, while I tried to ignore the odour and read the evening papers.

“You could not have waited with that experiment, till I had gone on my holidays, could you?” I inquired exasperated, after failing in either of my attempts. 

“No, but at last it might comfort you, that the smell polluting our living room, has helped prevent one of the most infamous burglaries ever attempted,” he answered. “Just before you arrived, I had a telegram from Gregson, telling me, that they have got their man.”

“And Scotland Yard will once again reap what you sowed, I presume.”

My friend shrugged his shoulders with a gleeful grin. 

“L'art pour l'art, my friend. L'art pour l'art.”

“It is only suitable, that you will spend your days fishing for trout, while I spend my days fishing for the criminal, that dabbles in the murky waters of this overpopulated pool that we call London.” Holmes continued after a while, pointing his pipe at my tackle in the corner next to the door.

“Is there yet another case you are working on?” I asked with interest. 

“Not right now, but Watson, something is brewing in London's underworld and it is going to come to manifest itself soon, I dare say.”

“That master criminal again?” Ever so often in the last couple of weeks, Holmes had referred to that mysterious man but never given any detail.

“Yes,” he replied, “but I still have to prove he is involved in all of this. He is cunning and intelligent, Watson, and extremely slithery, with an impeccable reputation and enough acquaintances in all the right places to make him an unlikely suspect in the eyes of the law.”

“Are you quite sure, it is not some kind of idée fixe of yours?” 

“Of course it is an 'idée fixe' of mine, and I will not rest, till I have got him safe and sound behind bars – or maybe even somewhere safer than that still.” he retorted aloof, getting up from his seat to walk over to the window.

“The smell really is horrible!” he remarked, now chuckling and with a twinkle to his grey eyes, indicating that he did not want to pursue the topic any further, “I think I might just go to bed, to escape it. You are up and about early, tomorrow morning if I remember it right, Watson. The seven forty-eight from Paddington, is it?”

“It is indeed. As soon as I have found a decent book to read on my journey, I will do just the same and retire to my room.” I answered.

“Well then, good night, Watson.” 

“Good night, Holmes.”

xxx

In the morning I woke up tired and worn. The sulphuric fumes had given me a headache and had, in consequence, prevented me from sleep. I also had not managed to decide, which book to take with me and so was in a worse mood than was to be expected of a man who was about to set off to a week of past time pleasures.

Since my start was very early I had decided not to take my breakfast at Baker Street, but to accommodate myself with something to eat at one of the small corner shops at the station that cater to commuters and generally serve a decent meal. Now I regretted my decision, feeling quite queasy from lack of sleep and the still lingering aftermath of my headache. I went downstairs to help myself to a cup of tea and when I returned into the living room, I found a small parcel on the table beside my packed holdall, that I had propped onto one of the chairs.

I reckon this will solve the problem of not finding suitable reading material while in Somerset. S. H.

Was written on the brown wrapping paper in my friend's handwriting.

I unwrapped the item to find Charles Robson's 'The effects of long-term poisoning in the human body'. I had heard of it since it was well on the rise to become one of the most precise medical volumes on the subject. Not exactly what I had had in mind, but just as well. I glanced around, but Holmes was no-where to be seen. I walked over to his bedroom to thank him and to bid my farewell but found him gone already. So I finished my tea, scribbled a thank you note onto the folded wrapping paper instead and then left for Paddington Station.

The journey was a long and tedious one, and I will not bother the reader with needless information concerning it. I arrived at Watchet early in the afternoon. The sun was still high in the sky, which was as impeccably blue as it can only be in the country. The sea, that I could just make out from the station from between two cottages was calm and the small waves glistened in the sunlight. A light breeze was sweeping across Bridgewater Bay. 

“I am Percy Wright are you Doctor Watson?” a young boy asked with surprisingly little accent. He was short and stout with freckles all over his face. In one hand he held a whip and an apple in the other.

“I am,” I replied.

“I am to pick you up and bring you to the inn. 'that your bag?” he pointed at my luggage.

“It is,” I answered, at which he stuffed the apple into his mouth, clamped it between his teeth, which gave him the appearance of a suckling pig and picked up the bag, gesturing me to follow, which I did, tackle under my arm. A small dog cart stood there waiting for us, with a mare that gave the impression that it could drop dead at any moment. 

The inn was a comfortable looking place, the whitewashed walls overgrown with honeysuckle, the windows and door painted a bright green and the roof covered by slabs of slate, posing a contrast to the otherwise vivid colours. It was situated a bit out of town on the road to Cleeve, with a little stream running down next to it towards the sea that was just beyond the field behind the house. 

“Welcome, Sir!” an also short and stout woman in black greeted me and it did not take many analytical skills to deduce she was the boy's mother. “I have the nicest room ready for you.” she continued, leading the way into the house.

“You say that to all the people...” a little girl of about three remarked, slightly irritated. She had been hiding in the shadows of the narrow corridor, obviously unsure whether to trust this stranger to her home or not. After a moment's hesitation, she decided that it was safe to trust me and stepped out and into the light. 

“It's because all our rooms are the nicest rooms, Annie,” her brother reprimanded her but chuckling all the same. “You are here to fish?” he inquired, looking at my fishing rods.

“Yes. Perhaps you can show me the best spots to do so,” I suggested, hinting that his efforts would get rewarded.

He quickly promised to do so as we climbed up the narrow staircase to the first floor. In front of a low and narrow door, he stopped, putting down my bags to open it.

“This is your room, Sir.”

It was small and sparsely but comfortably furnished, uncluttered, clean and well aired. And it had a most lovely view to the back of the house overlooking the bay, with the green meadow in the foreground. I had only begun to unpack and making myself at home when there was a knock on my door.

“Come in!” I answered, assuming that either the landlady or the boy would want something of me. But I was wrong. Very much so. To my utter astonishment, it was none other than Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard that greeted me with a broad smile on his face.

“Doctor Watson!” he held out his hand and I shook it. 

The amazement must have shown on my face since he continued: “Well, you are certainly surprised, I reckon. Did you read the paper yesterday evening?”

I shook my head, remembering the putrid smell of yesterdays experiment and how it kept me from doing so.

“No, I have not. I have been busy packing and went to bed early. Has something happened then?”

“Yes, there has been a murder. Happened at Cleeve School three days ago.”

I raised an eyebrow. 

“Yes, well, it is an easy enough case. I got the murderer already – as you would have read in the paper. You know, it is only very few cases, that we need the help of Sherlock Holmes.” he looked at me triumphantly. 

“Good. So who was it? The butler or the gardener?” I asked with a hint of sarcasm in my voice.

The Inspector chuckled. 

“Neither, it was one of the students, a Jack Sherman, who killed his English master, Mr Clarke. He had no alibi and was only minutes before the shot was heard seen arguing with his master – and very violent he was, according to the witnesses – the headmaster among them. Shot his master and then walked around the school as if nothing had ever happened. But what can you expect of a boy with such a background?”

“What background?”

“Oh, the school was founded to educate young boys that are talented but come from families that cannot afford any education beyond the obligatory visit of the local elementary school and even to street urchins like the ones Holmes likes to employ.- Much like Gordon's institution in Woking,” the detective explained.

“Ah, so that master Sherman is one of the boys from such a family, I assume.”

“Correct. What is the saying? A leopard cannot change his spots. And neither can a boy from a rough environment get rid of his unruly habits. They had a row and in his hot temper, the boy killed the man. Shot him with a pistol twice, once right to the heart!” 

I could not have disagreed any more if he had told me, that rivers flowed from the sea towards their spring, but decided to keep quiet. My belief that almost every man could better if receiving proper guidance did not alter the fact, that the young man had had an argument with his tutor and that afterwards that man was never more seen alive.

“Would you care to take a look?” the inspector asked. “I would show you around. A man of your interests surely cannot resist the temptation.” 

I could see, that he wanted to savour his success as much as possible, especially since normally I would only meet him when he was at his wit's end and needed to ask Holmes for help. So I agreed readily. 

“We could meet in half an hour and take the trap. I am sure Mrs Wright will not mind. She is not expecting anyone else today.” Lestrade continued, taking a look at his watch.

So exactly half an hour later we met in front of the house. The trap had been prepared for us, with the same piteous creature mounted to pull it. The inspector took the reigns and we drove towards the neighbouring village. The drive was a longer one than I had expected. It took us the better part of an hour to reach the school and I began wondering if we would be back in time for dinner.  
Cleeve as a village is situated further inland than the coastal town of Watchet - it's houses lined up alongside the main street, leading towards Dunster and meandering again towards the sea. Just one narrow road lead off towards the moor, towering ominously over the village in some distance. And into this lane, we turned. To our right, a river meandered through an old orchard with many ancient apple trees. It belonged, as I found out a little later, to the cider mill that I had seen next to the village post office. To our left, some cottages, once comfortable homesteads, seemed to crumble before our eyes. We turned a curve and a set of buildings, that had been hidden by those shabby houses and some more apple trees appeared a bit further down the street.

“There we are,” Lestrade announced, pointing at the surprisingly impressive buildings, that seemed to be a little out of place in this rural part of the country.

Cleeve School, was, in fact, an old abbey, whose fate was sealed, as it was for so many others, by Henry VIII's decision to split from Rome. The church had been dissolved, it's material had been re-used and left where only the quarters of the monks and the farm that they had kept to sustain them. For centuries it had been either a hostel, a farm or simply lay derelict, till some twenty years ago, a couple of rich men, the bishop of Wells, whose property it was and Sir Lesley Brown, who at the time was an MP for the borrow of Taunton, among them, had decided to install a school for talented young boys from poor families. 

It was an astonishingly grand and comfortable looking place. The boys kept two large vegetable gardens and on the far end, yet another orchard bordered the flanks of Exmoor. There was also a large fish pond, fed by the little stream on the other side of the road, that provided the inhabitants with fish and supplied a past time for the boys, who caught it with their tackle during their sparse hours of recreation. Next to the gatehouse was a large chicken coop and inside the large building, through which we had to walk to reach the Abbey grounds, what had once been the stables for some weary traveller's horses that had sought shelter in the abbey, where now housed about a dozen cows instead.

“They try to keep the cost for food as low as possible and instead rather spend it on the education,” Lestrade explained, in a tone, that clearly showed that only recently he himself had been provided with that information.

“It makes sense. The school has extensive grounds and the boys are presumably used to keeping a garden and help with the hard work.” I remarked, as we finally approached the main buildings. 

The door stood open and with a knock against the frame of it, Lestrade entered the small entrance hall. It was plainly furnished and the low wooden ceiling made it a little foreboding. As we stepped in the housekeeper, a decidedly chubby little lady of about sixty with the red face of a person suffering from hypertension, appeared from one of the back rooms. Her smile faded as her eyes fell upon my companion. 

“I tell you again, inspector, the boy is innocent!” she told the inspector without any further ado and then, with a polite smile, she greeted me.

“Good day, Sir. How do you do?” she curtsied. “I hope you are from the police and tell this man, that he is completely wrong, about young Sherman. He is a good boy, who would never as much as kill a fly!”

“I am not from the police, but I do take an interest in the case.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she looked me up and down and her face clearly showed disappointment. 

“So you are just being nosy!” 

“So to say.” I agreed, amused by her straightforwardness, while Lestrade looked rather taken aback.

“Well, if you are that interested, perhaps you are interested enough to find the real murderer and get that boy out of jail.”

“Where is he kept?” I asked turning towards my companion.

“Shepton Mallet,” was the official's plain answer.

“Well, I have to carry on with my work. You know your way around by now anyway, don't you?” the housekeeper mumbled and with that bustled off, back into the recesses of domestic economy. 

Lestrade stood for a while, deep in thought, looking at the door, the little lady had disappeared through.

“If I listen to this woman any longer, I will start to doubt my own findings.” he finally remarked, opening a door to the left of the entrance. It led into a narrow corridor that ran down into the old cloister. To our right a little lead glazed window afforded a blurred view inside the kitchen, a heavy door with a Gothic arch next to it showed that this was a part of the original building. I later found out by chance, that it had been part of the church, that had been used to construct what served as a farmhouse once and now was the entrance and supply for the whole school. 

As we entered the cloister I began wondering. We had entered a school, but I had not seen a single schoolboy. The classrooms that led off the old archway where empty, as where the recesses in the arcades themselves. 

“Oh, they are on garden duty every afternoon from three to half four. There is another large vegetable garden behind the refectory block.” Lestrade answered my question, pointing in the vague direction. “And in a week they will be off on holiday. - At least the ones that can afford it and have a family to visit.”

We walked straight on, down the length of the cloister and then into a room to our right.

“This is the place the man was found and where he and his pupil have been seen arguing.”

Indeed, the remnants of the pool of blood where still visible on the rough slabs of stone that covered the floor. The door had closed behind us and we found ourselves almost in another world. This indeed was a strange place. The ceiling was high and vaulted so that the room should have had an airy feel to it, but it did not. The windows where unusually small and all of them led out towards the cloister. Not one single window was overlooking the back of the building facing south, to brighten up the gloomy room. They were also positioned in a way, that made it hard, even for the tallest of men, to look through them. If it had not been for the gas lighting, that seemed to light the room permanently it would have been almost completely dark inside this chamber. As Lestrade turned up the lamps I could make out more and more of my surroundings. There was a piano at the narrow end of the room to our right and along the back of the room on some shelves, various musical instruments were lined up. 

“They use it as a music room!” the inspector announced, clearly amused. “Can you imagine that? A school for needy boys that teaches music?”

I could not see a reason, why they should not. 

“The money would be better spent on other skills,” he carried on, now frowning slightly.

“Perhaps...” I mused, walking over to the piano and playing a few notes of 'pour Elise'. 

“I did not know you could play, Doctor.” 

“It is the only tune I know how to,” I confessed. My performance of the song had never sounded so distinct as in this room. The clear notes of the piano reverberating and intensifying producing beauty where before was only silence. 

“Well, it sounded lovely nonetheless.” Lestrade praised me unduly. 

“So this is, where the man got shot.” It was not a question, but a statement. I kneed down at the blood stain. It was almost exactly in the middle of the room, no spatter indicated the direction the bullet went.

“How was he found.” I inquired.

“Dead, he had breathed his last before he was found. That was around four in the afternoon He was shot through the heart by one bullet and through the shoulder by the other.”

“I meant how lay his body?”

“Ah, he lay on his back, head towards the door, both legs were stretched out toward that corner,” he pointed towards the right-hand corner, next to the piano, “one leg was tucked underneath the other as if the force of the bullets had wheeled him around. You know how it is, Doctor.”

I did, acutely aware of the scar on my left shoulder, but despite all the force a bullet can develop, I had never seen such strength in them as that they could propel a grown man around like a spinning top. 

“Is the body still on the premises?” I asked. 

“Kept in the ice cellar. If you would follow me.” He opened the door and to my utter astonishment, we found ourselves in the middle of a chattering group of boys all of them queuing to wash their hands and faces and prepare for dinner. 

“Odd...” I remarked, not sure why I even found it so. As we passed the boys chatter stopped and an alert silence replaced it, followed by a curious murmur as to who I might be. I could all but feel their piercing glances. 

We rounded the south east corner of the arcades and went down the east side of them, where a small solitary building hid the stairs that ran into the recesses of what had once been the abbey church. It was quite befitting, that the body of the late master had been laid out in what had once been the crypt and now served as an ice cellar – currently devoid of the cooling agent though as the summer had advanced too far and had been a hot one at that. 

There lay the man, a tall and muscular fellow in his prime. His face even in death looked stern and foreboding, with his broad forehead, the long narrow nose, the thin wide lips and the square jaw. A scratch ran across his left temple and gave the face a rogue appearance as did a bruise on the cheek of the same side. His body was covered by a sheet but not yet dressed for the funeral and hence afforded me a good view of his injuries. An autopsy had not been conducted and the injuries stood out vividly from the paleness of the skin. One wound was in his chest, surprisingly small, I looked questioningly at the official.

“It was a small calibre,” I was affirmed. “Both bullets were lodged inside his body. The second wound is in his back shoulder. The coroner could take the one from the shoulder out with his forceps quite easily, the other one is still in there, but there is no need to conduct a full autopsy. There is no question whatsoever, how he died.” 

He lent me a hand to turn the corpse around and there, as inconspicuous as the other one was the second bullet hole.

“How was he shot in the back and the front?” I mumbled, more to myself than to Lestrade. But the inspector had heard me and answered:

“As I told you, he was wheeled around by the force of the first bullet and then shot again.”

“That it must be...” I replied, surer than before, that that could not be true. The dead man on the slab was not just a man in his prime, but an athletic fellow with broad shoulders, a muscular chest and arms and generally toned in a way, that made him resemble an ancient statue. 

“You spoke of witnesses, who are they, apart from the headmaster?” I asked as we walked back to our trap. 

“Oh, the other two were the old gardener, who was working in the vegetable garden overlooking the lake – where he saw Sherman throw something into the water and Barker, the Stewart. So you see, there are quite a few honourable people who can attest to the boy's guilt.” 

I nodded thoughtfully. For today, I had seen enough. What was I to do with the information I had gathered? And what exactly was it, that struck me as being plain wrong. The inspector could of course still be right in his conclusion, that Paul Clarke had been shot by his pupil, with whom he had a severe and violent argument, as the bruise on his cheek clearly proofed. But then again, what if not? 

On the way back Lestrade and I spoke little. I needed to think everything over and the inspector seemed to accept that I was not in a talkative mood. The impressions of the afternoon had left their mark and by the time we had reached the inn, I was weary, tired and irritated once more. The sleepless night and long day had now caught up on me and I was glad, that after a light meal I could finally retire to my room and sink into bed. 

xxx

I awoke the next morning torn between comfortable contentment and mental restlessness. The sun was as bright as it had been the day before and the sky just as blue, the sea looked calm and inviting. I decided to postpone my breakfast and take a little stroll down to the beach and towards the village to clear my mind. As I had crossed the meadow the path got more stony and steep, more so, than I had imagined. The bank that led down to the shore dropped down almost vertically, and the rocky shore bore the remnants of the stones that had once fallen down, washed out by the merciless winter seas. There was but one small trail that men could use, its bottom worn out by the many feet that had made use of it before me. The ground was slippery from the spray and I had been warned, not to linger too far offshore so I would not be caught by the incoming tide, but was assured, that otherwise, the path just underneath the cliff was safe at all times. In the distance, a ship sailed by down towards the Irish sea. I slowly strolled along the beach, and despite the beauty of my surroundings, I could not enjoy them as much as I wanted to. There was something in the back of my mind, that told me that Lestrade held the wrong man responsible for the death of the English master of Cleeve School. And so, when I reached Watchet, I went to the post office, which had conveniently been installed in an annexe building of the small station. 

The telegram I sent Holmes, was as follows:

Man has been killed, think wrong man has been accused. Want you to look into it. Watson

I did not get a reply however and by the afternoon, I wondered, if my note had even reached my friend. I knew he was a busy man and so I could only hope and wait. I tried to catch some fish in the brook behind the house but had little success. I had been told, that it would be a meagre undertaking and that for whatever reason the fish preferred the waters on the other side of the road, where underneath a weeping willow a there was a particularly good spot. But it was a good way further off and I did not want to miss any messenger. 

“I would fetch you straight away, Sir,” the boy Percy had assured me but with the stubbornness of man I had declined. Not one single catch I had made and the time for dinner drew ever so near. 

I could hear the man approach before I saw him. He whistled a jolly tune and walked up the path behind me with a firm step. I had seen a couple of farmhands trudge along the way and down towards the sea to take a dip a bit earlier and thought it to be one of them returning ahead of the others. But the steps did not pass but approached me.

“Good evening, Watson. No luck for you, I see.”

I wheeled around, almost sliding off my stool in the process to see a most familiar figure standing there. Holmes chuckled at my surprise. 

“I thought I could just as well come down straight away myself instead of sending you a cable,” he remarked, taking off his rucksack. He looked like an ordinary tourist, with his light linen suit and straw hat. 

“I appreciate it,” I told him. Holmes waved his hand in a cast-off manner.

“I presume it is the Cleeve School murder, you are talking about?” he asked, sitting down in the grass next to me.

“Yes. You read about it in the paper?”

“I did. Lestrade celebrated his success. And I have to say, it did not occur to me, that he might have arrested the wrong man from what I have read. So what makes you doubt?” he offered me a cigarette and lit himself one, too.

“If I could put a finger on it, Holmes, I would tell you, but I am afraid I have called you on a wild goose chase that is solely founded in a foreboding feeling that I had since yesterday when Lestrade showed me around.”

“Ah, so he needed to boast, didn't he?” Holmes laughed, his grey eyes twinkling. “Is he still here?”

“He left for Taunton this morning, I am not sure if he will return or will go back to London afterwards. I was out when he left and did not see whether he took his luggage or not.”

“All right. I will have a look around tomorrow then.”

“The funeral is tomorrow. It might be a bit inconvenient.”

“What time?”

“Ten in the morning.”

“Then we must be at the school by eight. - It will not be any more convenient this evening.” he rose, picked up his knapsack and turned towards the inn. “I hope they have a bed for yet another weary traveller.”

xxx

Holmes and I made an early start and even with the trap provided by our landlady we reached Cleeve well before eight. The school was bustling with the voices of young boys on their way to breakfast. I had been wondering, how to explain our presence and our wish, to look into the matter. But even in this remote part of the country, my companions name was not unknown. The front door was still locked at this early hour and we needed to ring the bell. It took a while till someone came.

“Yes?” a young man asked, as he opened the door.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.” my friend introduced himself, “I would like to look into the murder of your fellow colleague.”  
“Sherlock Holmes? The detective from London? But the crime has been solved. There is no mystery here, sir. Mr Clarke was shot by young Jack Sherman and that is the end of the story, I am afraid.”

“At least according to Inspector Lestrade. I was engaged in the matter because my friend here has his doubts about the conclusions the inspector made.”

“And who are you? What interest do you take in the matter? I have never seen you here before either.” the young teacher looked at me watchfully. 

“My name is Dr John Watson. Inspector Lestrade showed me around the day before yesterday and I stumbled over some inconsistencies regarding the man's death.”

At that moment the door leading off into the cloister opened and a middle-aged man with a balding head and a weak chin entered the anteroom.

“Who is there at this hour, Mr Porter?” he asked the young teacher suspiciously and with an undisguised air of arrogance.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson, Sir.” came the prompt reply. His superior looked confused. The names seemed not unfamiliar to him, but he was obviously unable to pinpoint where he had come across them before.

“What do they want?” he finally asked, after standing there for a minute or two, giving the impression of a man completely and utterly overstrained.

“They came here to open another inquest about Mr Clarke's murder.” 

While the older man stood there taking in this information, the younger one stepped aside to let us pass.

“Pray, what are you doing, Porter?” the older man snarled.

“Sir?” the young master looked bewildered at the harsh tone directed towards him.

“I asked, what you think you are doing.” his voice sounded rather shrill as he got more annoyed. “If they were sent by the police, they would have told us. They might just as well be impostors or -” here he broke off, lost for words in his infuriation.

“It is not very difficult to prove, that we are exactly who we claim to be, Mr Rogers,” Holmes remarked calmly, reaching for his wallet and handing over some papers. “Also, you could ask your housekeeper to vouch for the good doctor here.” 

“And what is it you want from us?” the headmaster asked and then, realising that he had not introduced himself added, “And who gave you my name?”

Holmes smiled cordially as he answered in a sweet voice: “You are obviously a man of authority and it is clear from your whole bearing, that you are a born leader and hence must be the headmaster. As to how I knew your name, it got mentioned yesterday, when I took tea with Inspector Lestrade.”

The man looked flattered, his demeanour changed considerably but before he could say anything Holmes carried on: “It was then, that Inspector Lestrade asked me to back up his findings. Doctor Watson you know, who frequently serves as a juror at court, thought that the evidence might still be a bit too vague to prosecute the perpetrator.”

“Oh, I was not aware of that. Well then, you better come in.” He smiled lopsidedly and wiped his brow with a chequered handkerchief. “It is quite warm already.” he mumbled and then ordered: “Porter, show the gentlemen around.”

“A bit of flattering no matter how undeserved, and blatantly a lie goes a long way,” Holmes whispered into my ear.

The young tutor led us through the same hallway, that the inspector and I had taken, to show us into the music room, but Holmes stopped him.

“Considering, that the man is buried in less than two hours, I would prefer, to take a look at the body first.”

“The body? But you said...”

“I said, I am here to review all the evidence and back up the inspector's findings. I cannot do so, without seeing the body.”

The young man turned pale. “I'd prefer to stay out of that ice house.”

“Then we will go on our own.” my friend decided and looking at the man added, “you may wait outside.”

“Thank you.” the man gasped at his narrow escape.

As we climbed down the steep stone steps and into the old crypt, we found that we were not the only ones that had come here. The undertaker had just stepped in before us, to return dignity to the dead man and wash and dress him in his shroud, so he could be placed in his plain and unadorned coffin. Carefully he dipped his sponge into a bowl of warm water, that steamed a bit in the cold air of this underground vault.

“Could you just wait a moment, so I could take a look at the body?” Holmes asked, after greeting the man.

The undertaker, or better the local carpenter, was a tall and heavy man with a good-humoured face, all sunburnt and freckled and a whistle on his lips. His figure was in such stark contrast to the pale dead body and his surroundings that it seemed surreal. But this benevolence proofed to be our luck. All too willing to help he stepped back from the bier and sat down in a small recess that must have once held the statue of a saint.

“Hard to believe, that those two tiny holes could fell this tree of a man,” he remarked in a broad Somerset accent. “First murdered man I have ever seen.”

“And hopefully your last. Have you washed him already?” Holmes asked, bending over the murdered man.

“No, I only arrived shortly before you did. Had a cup of coffee with my aunty first – she's the housekeeper here, you know? There was no time to do anything but bring down the water and pull off that sheet.” he pulled out a clay pipe and began stuffing it.

Nodding at this response, Holmes began to examine the man closely, from the scratch and bruise on his face, looking at his arms and legs and finally the wholes left by the two bullets. His brows furrowed ever so deeply as he saw the deadly wounds.

“You are right, Watson, this is curious.” my friend remarked and then, turning around to the Somerset native, “Could you perhaps get me a long but narrow stick?”

“Will a willow withe do? They keep them lying around the classrooms.”

“Certainly.”

A moment later the implement was brought down and handed over. Holmes pulled out his pocket knife and snapped it in half.

“Watson, help me rolling him onto the side,” he ordered to which I followed suit, and then, slowly and very carefully he inserted the pieces of wood into the wounds left by the bullets.

“Whatever are you doing that for?” the undertaker asked, looking curious. I doubted, that there was anything, that could surprise or disconcert this man. 

“To look at the angles.” was the short and concentrated reply. I could see, that something had already caught Holmes' attention. His eyes darted between the two wounds and the man's feet and finally, he took out his measuring tape and notebook writing down some data.

“I think we have learned all we can. Thank you.” he bowed slightly to the workman and handed him a shilling. 

As we ascended the stairs up and into the bright summers morning that had risen above ground, the young teacher was nowhere to be seen.

“All the better, Watson,” Holmes remarked. “Where was he found?”

I led the way, back through the east side of the cloister and rounding the corner to the south end. The door to the music room was closed but not locked. No one was in there, but a boy of about fourteen. He sat at the piano that I had tinkled on when escorting Lestrade. I had been sure, that the room would be empty. On the outside, not a single sound had been heard and yet inside the walls were reverberating from the simple but passionate notes played by the youth. Holmes looked as confused as myself, then his face lit up, he turned around and walked back out, beckoning me to follow. Softly he closed the door behind us and all music was silenced in an instant.

“Ingenious!” he cried out, opening the door once more and re-entering the dim chamber. The youngster was just finishing his tune and now turned his face towards us. His face showed a combination of surprise, sorrow and anger at our intrusion. 

“This room is soundproof, is it not?” my friend asked. The boy looked confused, staring at Holmes, then nodded.

“Yes, there where special windows installed to keep the sound inside this one room. It used to carry through the cloisters and throughout the whole school.”

“Why did they not simply use another room?” I wondered.

“There is no other room they could use. The acoustic in here is brilliant but this room is too dark to serve as a classroom.”

“What was your connection with Mr Clarke?” Holmes suddenly asked. 

“What business of yours is it, to ask that question?” the boy retorted defiantly. 

“None,” my companion answered nonchalantly, “I am only trying to find out, what really happened to your tutor, that is all.”

The youth eyed him suspiciously.

“I thought the inspector had his solution and that it was final,” he remarked bitterly. 

“So you do not believe, that Clarke was killed by young Sherman?”

“Jack could not hurt a fly.” Was the passionate answer.

“But he had hit his teacher.” Holmes considered.

“Nonsense!” 

“Then how did Clarke get the bruise on his face and the scratch?”

The youngster looked confused and then, out of nothing burst into laughter.

“Oh, that was not Sherman, that was me.” he still chuckled before turning grave once more.

“You?” Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Explain!”

“He did not only teach English, but he also was our sports tutor. I might be talented on the piano but it is a hopeless case making me try and play cricket. I had hit him with the ball accidentally, but at least I scored a run.”

I could see my friends mouth twitch in repressed amusement.

“And as for your question, what Mr Clarke was to me - he was the one, that got me off the street. I used to be a guttersnipe down in Bristol. May parents I never knew. Fled the workhouse when I was seven. I tried to pickpocket him, but he caught me and when he realised I could read and write he inquired further, found I had potential and offered to take me with him. Here I have now lived for the past three years. It was the first time I could call a place a home. A stern man Clarke was, but a decent one. He never asked anything of us that he would not do or had not done himself. He was the father I never had. He was always fair and honest to the bone. Not like...” he bit his tongue, his face turning red as he realised that he had almost forgotten where his loyalties lay.

“I need to leave, I have not put on a clean collar and black tie for the funeral yet,” he added after an embarrassed pause. 

Just as he left, Porter, the young teacher had caught up on us again, poking his head through the open door.

“Have you seen everything you needed to see?” he asked. He now looked slightly harassed.

“Not in the least, Mr Porter.” Sherlock Holmes pulled out his pocket watch and continued, “I think we will join the funeral and then return to the school with you afterwards.”

“What else is there to see, Sir?” a short and wiry man we had not met before asked, having overheard the conversation. His whole body seemed tense. He gave the impression of an overwound spring that was ready to jump into our faces.

“I will be able to tell you that when I have found, what I have been looking for,” Holmes replied coolly.

“I can tell you straight away, that there is nothing you will find. And do you know why that is?”

This question was merely greeted by a raised eyebrow. 

“Because there is sod-all to find. That is why!” he stomped off.

“Interesting.” Holmes mumbled and then in a cheery voice told me “How tall do you take him to be?”

“Not more than five foot one. Why?”

My question was ignored, but my companion looked satisfied with my answer. 

“Come on, Watson, or we will be late for the funeral.”

xxx

It was a remarkably plain funeral. No flowers adorned the coffin, no cloth covered the bare wood, no shiny brass handles gave dignity to a man so suddenly taken and so valued by apparently everyone. The sermon was just long enough to still be considered appreciative of the dead man. He had been one of the Oliver Twists himself, a boy with no parents, no friends, living in the streets and off of them. But, he had managed to catch the eye of a benefactor and was brought to this very school where he had lived, learned and taught, never leaving it for a better position. Many of the boys wept and were reprimanded for it. There where but few locals, among them one young woman, supported by the arm of her sister, who seemed to have had a claim on the man. Tears where streaming down her handsome face, while otherwise, she stayed composed. 

“I heard rumours of an affair between them, yet they were not engaged as far as I know,” the young teacher muttered as he followed Holmes' and my gaze. 

“Who was the boy, we spoke to?” I wanted to know as everyone went to throw dust onto the casket and spotting the boy among his peers, his face pale and stony. 

“Ah, that is Sam Miller – at least that is the name he goes by.” 

As the whole group walked back towards the school, Porter had joined Holmes and me almost automatically. 

“Miller and Sherman played music together. Miller plays the piano and Sherman the violin,” he told us, picking up the conversation, where it had left of. 

“And Clarke?” Holmes wanted to know.

“I believe he could play the piano halfway decently, but I have never heard him do so. I just think I remember him telling me once. He preferred to listen to music instead of making it himself – much like me.” a sad smile played on his lips as he recollected.

“Can you describe Jack Sherman to me?” Holmes interrogated the man further. He looked astonished at the request.

“Of course. He is a tall and lean fellow, a bit shorter than Doctor Watson but not much. For a boy he has rather delicate features but not quite girlish – yet in any play we are staging he ultimately ends up being the heroine – much to his chagrin. He always gets taunted because of it, but never in a vicious manner. He also used to sing in the choir till the breaking of his voice, since then I have never heard him sing again. His hair is kept very short and curls as it gets longer.”

“I presume that is, why he keeps it so short,” Holmes interjected.

“Yes. He is red-haired with fair skin and freckles across his nose and cheeks. Sherman is a quiet and inconspicuous fellow, and only on occasion, his temper matches the colour of his hair. But as quick as he might flare up, he calms down again and he has never kept a grudge. He likes sports but prefers athletics to ball games, he is a good and diligent student with a knack for languages. He never puts himself forward and is, in general, a very private person.”

“Not one to quarrel often?”

“No, but as said, he could be hot-headed sometimes – but to my knowledge was never violent.”

Holmes looked thoughtful but did not say anything further till we reached the school again. The main entrance was already clogged with people as we arrived. 

“There is a way around the buildings and through a gate at the back,” Porter informed us, leading the way and obviously not very keen himself in joining the masses for a presumably rather meagre funeral party that was held in the refectory. But as soon as we had rounded the building and had reached the room, he was called upon by the headmaster and needed to leave us there.

“Now, Watson, you told me, Lestrade gave you an exact description on how the body was found?”

I nodded and repeated what I had been told on my first visit here.

“So that would mean, the body was positioned like this.” my friend stated, lying down on the rough stone floor.

“Yes, pretty much.”

“How did he explain the two opposite wounds?”

I repeated that also.

He nodded, scrambling to his knees and taking out his magnifying glass.

“Lestrade's theory just does not add up, Watson. I completely agree with you on that point. With a calibre that small the velocity would never have been enough to get a man of Clarke's stature out of balance.”

Holmes professed, getting back up, brushing the dust off his trousers and coat.

“So let me fill you in as to how the man had lost his life: First, he was shot in the shoulder from an upward angle, fell to the floor, was turned around and then, subsequently was shot in the breast, this time from a downward angle, to kill him since he survived the first shot and was only momentarily knocked out – as the amount of blood on the floor clearly tells.”

“But that could still mean, that Sherman did it, though,” I remarked.

“Unlikely. If the door was closed, how was anyone supposed to have heard the shots? And where did he leave the weapon?”

“He could have thrown it into the pond. The gardener was sure he saw Sherman throw something into the water.” I suggested.

“That, of course, is a possibility. But, Watson, there is another thing, where would a boy, a poor boy at that, that hardly ever leaves the school, get a firearm? - But all the answers will be mere speculation, so do not bother answering them, Watson. I just wanted to make a point.”

“And that is?”

“That it would have been likely the boy, if the master had been stabbed – knives are more useful to young rascals, but that the fact, that he was shot, is a very strong point against this. Also, no blood was found on the boys clothing, as far as I understand it, yet, he was turned around in a way, that the assailant must have soiled himself at least lightly.”

“No, no blood was found, that was why Lestrade came up with the theory, that Clarke had wheeled around after the first shot and then dropped to the floor after the second bullet had hit him. But how did you establish that he had still lived after the first shot? That the first shot was the one through the shoulder and that he was turned around on the floor?” I felt like a schoolboy myself, and a very thick one at that.

“I'll tell you on our way back. You do not happen to know, when the next train leaves for Shepton Mallet, do you?” 

“They go every hour at twenty minutes past to Taunton, there we have to change into a train to Bath if I am informed correctly.” 

“Good, then we should be there by late afternoon.”

xxx

Holmes was actually silent all the way back to the inn and station, lost in his own thoughts and only on the train did he begin to speak.

“I apologise, Watson, I just needed to finish one trail of thought, but now I can almost certainly tell you, what has happened – and why and by whom, I think we might establish within the afternoon.”

He took out his tobacco purse and stuffed his pipe and while he smoked he answered my questions.

“To your question, how I knew, that the shot through the shoulder was the first one – it was the wound, that corresponded with the stain on the floor. That stain is remarkable because it is quite a substantial pool of blood and a dead man does not bleed. As to how I knew he was turned around, there where fingermarks on his right upper arm and it showed all ten fingers – like this (at that he had got up and demonstrated it upon my own arm) the ring finger being actually longer than the middle finger, which is quite rare, and on the other side, near his elbow, where the hip would lock down the arm while the body is being turned, there was a light bruise that corresponded with a protruding edge on one of the stone slabs – also an indication by the way, that he had still been alive at that point. Dead people do neither bleed nor bruise. So what must have happened is in effect this: Clarke and Sherman had an argument about something and retreated to the music room so no-one would overhear them. After a while, Sherman, now calm again left the music room, while his teacher stayed behind – perhaps he needed to think something over, or had yet another appointment in there.”

“But the shots where heard, before Sherman had left the room, Holmes,” I remarked.

“Yes, but they cannot have come from the music room,” my friend replied calmly.

“But surely one would hear gunshots...”

“Not if the room was soundproofed, Watson! - The room does not let in any sound and it does not let out any sound either. Remember, when we entered the boy Miller was playing fortissimo, at least and yet, we had no idea he was even in there until we had opened the door. A gunshot would either not be heard at all or extremely faint so it would be indistinguishable as to what it would be. - No Watson, the shots that have killed Mr Clarke have not been heard by anyone but the victim and the murderer.”

“But shots were heard around that time.” I insisted.

“Yes, and I do believe someone did shoot – I saw a few crows nests on our way to the school – one was actually atop the old birch tree next to the village church. But did you happen to see any crows?”

“Not that I can recall.” I had to admit. 

“So there is a great possibility that the shots that were heard, were the ones that killed the crows.”

“But wouldn't that be too much of a coincidence?” 

“Why? We are in the country. Shots are heard from time to time with no significant meaning to them whatsoever. And that aside – Lestrade's witnesses might even have heard the shots the previous day or even week, the human memory is never very reliable, especially not, when one is being asked suggestive questions – as I know Lestrade loves to do. If I would ask you, what day I had played a particular tune, you would be hard pressed to tell me. And why? Because it is a frequent occurrence and since it happens almost every day, that I play the violin, it could be any day, that I have played the tune in question. But there is Taunton and I do hope, we won't need to wait long for the connecting train.”

We did not need to wait at all. The train was ready to leave on the platform opposite and we just managed to get into our compartment before, with a whistle, the train got into motion. 

I pondered a while upon Holmes' last words, staring out of the window seemingly watching the country fly past and the more I thought about them, the more truth I could see in them. Lestrade's version of the crime did make less and less sense I had to admit and one thing Holmes had once said came to mind: If you have eliminated all other options, the one that is left, no matter how unlikely, has to be the truth. But had we eliminated all other options?

“If it was not Sherman, who do you think has killed Clarke?” I finally asked my companion. Holmes had lit himself another pipe and smoked while watching me through half closed eyes. The smile on his thin lips told me that he had anticipated that question, long before it had been asked.

“That, Watson, is, what we are about to find out.”

“You think Sherman knows the killer?”

“Yes.”

“But why does he not say so?” I wondered.

“He might not know, he knows. Or he has a good reason to keep quiet.” was the calm reply.

“What reason could he have?”

“Have you ever heard what the squabble between Sherman and Clarke was supposed to be about?”

“Not that I can recall. It seems to have started during the boys' sports lessons,” I tried to remember all the information Lestrade had given me, “but if it was about sports, I cannot say.”

“If it had been about sports, there hardly would have been any need to avoid a public dispute,” Holmes beckoned, “And do you know if it was Sherman or Clarke who started it?”

“I cannot recall that either,” I admitted.

“Neither can I.” 

Holmes' statement took me by surprise.

“Why would you be surprised”, he answered my remark, “no-one could tell us. All they did tell us was, that there was an argument between those two. We do not need to doubt that they had a heated conversation, but was it really as much as a quarrel? If it had been an incident on the playing field, it was not pursued right away, but postponed – that does not sound like a violent and passionate strife to me. When there was a chance to dispute about it later, it was transferred to the privacy of the music room. – So, did the argument ensue there or was it a simple private conversation? And if it was the former, how come, we take it as given fact, that it was a quarrel? Who could give testimony to it's supposed violence? We have already learned, that the injuries to Clarke's face had nothing to do with Sherman. Is there any other evidence? It appears not. Lestrade said that Rogers who he claims as witness, saw Sherman walking slowly along the arcades and attested that as cold-bloodedness. - Could it not just as well be complete unawareness of the tragedy ahead?”

“Possibly,” I admitted.

“Does that boy Sherman, if you take the description that Porter gave us, strike you as a boy that would act that cold after he had killed a man?”

“No, not at all. - But what if passion had driven him?”

“Then, dear doctor, it would be even less likely that only moments later he would walk along the cloisters in a calm and suave manner. It is more a testimony to Sherman and Clarke having resolved their differences. If they ever really had any.”

xxx

We got out of the train at the small market town of Shepton Mallet and walked the short distance to the prison. It took us a while and a lot of explaining till we were admitted to the prisoner. But Holmes' name and reputation had at last won over bureaucracy.

“Weird fellow, that.” the constable told us while leading the way. “Never says much, but I can hear him cry at night in a way, that makes one wonder if he is quite right in the head. Sounds almost like a banshee. I looked in once and what must I tell you? He's crying in his sleep! And what fuss he made, when he needed to change into the prison clothing. I told him that he's got nothing I ain't have myself, but he point blank refused. I wonder if that teacher Clarke had his way with him. I saw an injury at the boy's chest – he's bandaged. By the looks of it, I reckon it's at least a bruised rib or two. Anyway, he never gives us any trouble aside from that. And what trouble is that, ey? If he likes to change in private, I am not bothered by it.”

 

Jack Sherman was indeed the gangly looking boy, Porter's description had suggested. He was very thin and even though he was not quite as tall as I had imagined him to be, he at least gave the impression of it. His face was sensual with large eyes and a full mouth. He indeed looked fairly feminine. But his attitude was decidedly that of a boy. I could see Holmes squeeze his hand hard, as he introduced himself and the youth not even flinched.

“Jack Sherman?” 

“Yes, Sir.” the boy answered in a firm voice, looking Holmes straight in the eye.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, that is Doctor John Watson, and we are here to help you prove your innocence.”

“Why?” he asked, almost with defiance.

“Because I do not like innocent people being hung for crimes they did not commit and neither does the good doctor here. We prefer to see the guilty ones swing on the gallows.”

The boy's eyes widened at that and I could see that all the brutal reality of his situation came crashing down on him. He looked down and I was certain that a tear glistened in his long lashes.

“And how would you know me to be innocent? The inspector is certain that I have killed Mr Clarke and that no-one else could have done it. Shots were heard shortly before I left him and was seen by headmaster Rogers and Barker and the gardener – as I was told over and over again.”

“At the moment at least I give you the benefit of the doubt.” Holmes smiled gently. “I have e few questions to ask and they might either prove your innocence or your guilt.”

“They cannot prove my guilt – but neither my innocence.”

“Let me be the judge of that. What have you to lose?” 

The boy muttered something inaudible but I am sure it was “everything”, that he had said.

“Let us start with the formalities. You are called Jack Sherman?”

“I already answered that.” he lifted his chin defiantly.

“You did. - But would you be so kind as to tell us your real name?”

“Jack...”

“Your real name, Miss!” 

Sherman's eyes widened and for a moment he looked as if he would put up a fight, but then he just laughed, a hollow and hopeless laugh before answering:

“Ann. Ann Sherman. Jack was my little brother. He died of typhus as did my mother. Father could not keep us, so my older brother and I were transferred to the poor house.”

“So you ran from the poor house assuming your dead brothers name?.”

She nodded. “I did not want to be sold off to… - Well you know, sailors pay well for the likes of me.” 

“How did you end up at Cleeve?” 

“Every Sunday morning, I would stand at the church gates of Saint Saviours in Bridgewater, holding the door open for all the people going in or coming out, hoping for a penny or tuppence and also to see my father. It broke his heart to see me like this, but he had lost all his money vouching for a friend, who subsequently turned on him. That is why mother died – we could not afford a doctor or any medicine and father was, at that point, still too proud to ask for help. Anyway, I came to the attention of the vicar, who was not very pleased with my occupation. But he was surprised at my quickness and wit and suggested me to the deacon and one Sunday morning I was quite literally hoisted up and brought to the school. It was burden and bliss from there on.”

“Did Clarke know all along?” Holmes continued his interrogation.

“No, he never suspected anything. It was the morning on the day he died that he found out.”

“Which was, of course, the reason for your argument.” Holmes deduced.

Another nod.

“How did he find out?”

“During sports, he wanted to correct my posture and pressed his hand against my chest. He could feel my…” she blushed, not able to look at either of us.

“Your breast,.” my friend bluntly stated.

“Yes.”

“How do you manage to hide them?”

As an answer, she lifted her shirt and a wide and tight bound bandage became visible. It hid the obvious underneath a shirt and waistcoat, but would certainly not withstand a firm touch.

“What did Clarke do after he discovered your secret?”

“He ordered me to meet him which we did. We met at the refectory door since the arcades are usually deserted around that time.”

“Usually? So they were not deserted that day?” 

Ann Sherman looked confused for a moment, then seemed to recollect.

“No, that horrible man Barker was lingering around the corridor. Mr Clark suggested to retreat into the music room and there we talked.”

“Did any of you shout or argue?”

“Well, Mr Clarke was not very pleased and he showed it when he was displeased he usually raised his voice, but I would not call it shouting – well, and I was not in the highest of spirits either.”

“You seem to bring the art of understatement to a whole new level, Miss Sherman,” Holmes remarked.

“What I wanted to say was, that he spoke to me quite stern and with perhaps a louder voice than he normally would and I might have answered him in defiance. - I really cannot say, it all seems so unreal. We talked it over and thought it best, that I would go on vacation with the other students and not return.”

“What would you have done?” I inquired, realising that this situation must have been quite desperate.

“Clarke promised to find me a position somewhere, or perhaps a place at a charity school for girls, and besides, I had managed to live on the streets for almost two years before I came here, I would have made my way somehow. Of course, I would have liked it best to return to my family, but my father has died last winter and my brother has gone to sea.” 

“So Clarke's death was a double-edged sword. On one hand, if he died, you would not need to leave the school and on the other, if he did die, you had no one, who could help you to find something else.”

“It was actually my suggestion to leave. It became more and more difficult to keep up the disguise, particularly that once a month.” she blushed. “And it was also tricky to avoid washing myself without anyone else present. Clarke did not offer to help me in my disguise, but he did give his word, not to give me away. He would have helped me either way.”

“You said, Barker – that is the Stuart if I recall it correctly - was lingering around outside the music room. Was that before or after you left it?”

“He was walking around the cloister when we met and I saw him again, after I had left Mr Clarke.”

“Was he walking from or towards the music room?”

“He seemed to wait for someone, and was first walking up and down, later he was walking from the music room and towards Mr Roberts' office – that is the one next to the refectory staircase – you enter the door to the refectory and a few steps up, there is a door, that's the office.”

“Nothing else?” Holmes pressed her further.

“I had the feeling, he had waited for me to leave and then told the headmaster.”

“Did you see the headmaster?”

“No, but I was not paying any attention to it at the time. I was told that he saw me. He might have. The cloister is a very confusing place. One might see without being seen.”

Holmes nodded thoughtfully.

“Where did you go after you left the cloister? I understand you did not meet the others in the garden.” he carried on.

“I walked around the cloister, and left it by the back gate down to the lake.”

“Which is where the gardener saw you,” I concluded.

“Yes, I saw him also and waved my hand.”

“He said he saw you throw something into the water. What was it?” Holmes asked further.

“It was a stone. I had picked it up at the gate earlier because it was nice and round and I wanted to bounce it on the surface. Alas, I threw it at the wrong angle and it sank.”

“That must have been what they later assumed to have been the disposal of the weapon,” I muttered. Both my companions nodded.

“So what do you make of it?” I asked my friend.

“That the gardener was too far away, to be considered a suspect. So that would leave the other two witnesses.”

“So I presume you consider Barker to be the one who shot Clarke?” I continued and added, remembering what Holmes had told me about the wound:. “He is quite short and would have to hold the gun at an upward angle if he wanted to shoot Clarke in the shoulder.” 

I was very proud of my deduction, I have to admit and thought it very sound.

“No, not at all.” was his pensive answer.

“No? But if it was neither of them that only leaves Roberts.”

“So it would seem.”

“So it would seem? But surely it is the only alternative.” I burst out.

“Not at all. There is one more alternative.” Holmes stated off hand.

“Another alternative?” Ann Sherman asked. And I could see, that she was sure that Holmes had settled again upon her being the suspect. But there was something in the detective's manner, that told me, that his thoughts had taken a completely different turn.

“It was them both.”

“Both?!” Ann Sherman and I cried in unison. 

“Both!” Holmes repeated.

“But why?” the young girl voiced, what was also going through my mind.

“We'll find out,” Holmes assured her and with a curt nod of his head, he knocked on the door so the warden could let us out.

xxx

On our way back, Holmes refused point blank to talk about the case and kept silent and brooding. When I got up the next morning, he was already gone but had left a note with the landlady that he would be back before dinner. He kept his word and was in a much more talkative mood than the night before.

I have them, Watson. Both!” he rejoiced. “Sherman will be released tomorrow – I made sure of that so she will not need to sleep in the streets. And I have a very good motive for both the honourable Mr Barker and Mr Roberts to kill Paul Clarke.”

The food was brought in and he was interrupted for the moment.

“Which is?” I asked, as soon as Mrs Wright had left for the kitchen again.

“Blackmail.”

“Clarke did blackmail them?”

“Not quite. Barker blackmailed Roberts and Clarke found out about it.”

“But why would that give a motive to Roberts? He must have been relieved to be rid of the blackmailer.”

“Not necessarily. If the cause for blackmail was an illegal one.” Holmes helped himself to a decent sized portion of steak pie and potatoes. He tucked in with a good appetite.

“Dear me, the fresh air makes one hungry!” he remarked. 

“So what did he do?” I asked, not able to retain my curiosity any longer.

“He defalcated school money to finance his gambling habit.”

“And Barker blackmailed him because of it.” I ascertained.

“Correct. Clarke found out about either and threatened them to go to the board and tell them, which ultimately would have them both expelled in a dishonourable manner and consequently lead to their ruin.”

“But shoot him in the back like cowards?” I sadly shook my head.

“Watson, I am afraid, that is exactly what they are. When they had the opportunity handed to them by Lestrade and his suggestive questions, they took it and blamed an innocent boy. - Or rather girl, but they could not have known that. They could have taken the option of simply keeping quiet, but they did not. Frankly, I think that is disgusting. Humanity will not be sorry to lose these two individuals, I dare say.”

“And the gardener?” 

“Answered to what he had heard and seen. I spoke to our friend the carpenter again and he told me he himself had shot a couple of crows that day. They had a bit of a problem with them lately and were told by the mayor that whoever had the chance, was to shoot them.”

“Does Lestrade know of your findings?” I could not help but feel sorry for the official.

“He'll be here shortly. I have sent him a telegram and he'll arrive by the eight o'clock from London.

“And the girl?” 

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. 

“But Holmes, we cannot quite leave her like that. Where is she supposed to go?”

“I might write a few letters and perhaps I can follow up on Clarke's suggestion and place her in a similar institution but for girls. She is bright and I have no doubt she'll make her way. For the next two weeks at least, she has a place to stay. At Cleeve, no one knows and a fortnight longer as a boy will not make much of a difference.”

xxx

It was later that evening, that Holmes, Lestrade and myself sat on the porch, each a glass of cider in hand, watching the fishing boats in the moonlight, floating out with the receding tide. Lestrade had not been happy about the development, but he had accepted it more quickly than I had anticipated.

“That music room really got me! Perhaps music is not such a bad thing after all...” he remarked.

“No, and perhaps a holiday in the country is simply too quiet for the good doctor.” Holmes chuckled.

“Are you going back to London tomorrow?” I wanted to know.

“I know you to be impatient to be rid of me, so yes, I will – but not before I have had the chance of playing some music in that room. Sherman has promised me to lend me her violin.”

“Her?”

“Never mind, Lestrade. Never mind.” I told him, thinking of the three peaceful days of trout fishing ahead of me.

 

Author's note: Cleeve Abbey is a real place, but has never served as a school. It belongs now to the English Heritage and is well worth a visit, as is Watchet and Dunster. Anyhow, the story is a fictional one and I have taken liberties regarding historical and geographical accuracy.


End file.
